Madeline, however, was not moved by their entreaties.  She grasped only dimly the truth of what it was she was learning—­something infinitely more than the rounding up of cattle by cowboys, and she was loath to lose an hour of her opportunity.

Her brother looked out for her as much as his duties permitted; but for several days he never once mentioned her growing fatigue and the strain of excitement, or suggested that she had better go back to the house with Florence.  Many times she felt the drawing power of his keen blue eyes on her face.  And at these moments she sensed more than brotherly regard.  He was watching her, studying her, weighing her, and the conviction was vaguely disturbing.  It was disquieting for Madeline to think that Alfred might have guessed her trouble.  From time to time he brought cowboys to her and introduced them, and laughed and jested, trying to make the ordeal less embarrassing for these men so little used to women.

Before the week was out, however, Alfred found occasion to tell her that it would be wiser for her to let the round-up go on without gracing it further with her presence.  He said it laughingly; nevertheless, he was serious.  And when Madeline turned to him in surprise he said, bluntly: 

“I don’t like the way Don Carlos follows you around.  Bill’s afraid that Nels or Ambrose or one of the cowboys will take a fall out of the Mexican.  They’re itching for the chance.  Of course, dear, it’s absurd to you, but it’s true.”

Absurd it certainly was, yet it served to show Madeline how intensely occupied she had been with her own feelings, roused by the tumult and toil of the round-up.  She recalled that Don Carlos had been presented to her, and that she had not liked his dark, striking face with its bold, prominent, glittering eyes and sinister lines; and she had not liked his suave, sweet, insinuating voice or his subtle manner, with its slow bows and gestures.  She had thought he looked handsome and dashing on the magnificent black horse.  However, now that Alfred’s words made her think, she recalled that wherever she had been in the field the noble horse, with his silver-mounted saddle and his dark rider, had been always in her vicinity.

“Don Carlos has been after Florence for a long time,” said Alfred.  “He’s not a young man by any means.  He’s fifty, Bill says; but you can seldom tell a Mexican’s age from his looks.  Don Carlos is well educated and a man we know very little about.  Mexicans of his stamp don’t regard women as we white men do.  Now, my dear, beautiful sister from New York, I haven’t much use for Don Carlos; but I don’t want Nels or Ambrose to make a wild throw with a rope and pull the Don off his horse.  So you had better ride up to the house and stay there.”

“Alfred, you are joking, teasing me,” said Madeline.  “Indeed not,” replied Alfred.  “How about it, Flo?” Florence replied that the cowboys would upon the slightest provocation treat Don Carlos with less ceremony and gentleness than a roped steer.  Old Bill Stillwell came up to be importuned by Alfred regarding the conduct of cowboys on occasion, and he not only corroborated the assertion, but added emphasis and evidence of his own.